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Arthur hates Beaver Hollow.
He hates how the area smells of smog. He hates how there’s always a chill in the air. He hates how it’s confined and dark. He hates how everyone is tense and full of spite. He despises the way Dutch looks at him with contempt, a burning hatred in his eyes that screams betrayal and disdain. He hates the way he feels hopeless and alone— the way his lungs heave and his head grows light whenever he coughs. He hates the way Jack wishes everyone would stop fighting, hates the way Abigail puts her whole trust into him—
Arthur fucking hates this place.
He can’t even recall ever feeling so displaced and awkward in camp. Maybe in the early days when he was just a 15-year-old and still trying to find his place in this mismatched world. But it’s been nearly two decades since then. He’d grown accustomed to warm welcomes, spirited songs that captured the night in a loving embrace, and the teasing banter everyone engaged in. Those things were home. Hosea’s endearing teasing, Sean’s rambunctious banter, Javier’s soft guitar strums under the night illuminated stars. A familiar love that Arthur had so violently taken advantage of as a young boy that, as he sat on the edge of Beaver Hollow, he missed so dearly as a grown man. A time where he was loved and loved equally as hard.
A time when Dutch still called him son , a look of pride and joy in his eyes. When Arthur couldn’t deny that his heart soared and his face beamed with a smile. The last time he’d been a son he had thrown and tarnished it, he clinged onto the handful of good memories— dawned his father’s gambler hat to remind him of who he was. But Arthur had another chance to be someone’s son and he didn’t need to force it upon him. Dutch had chosen him. Had picked him out of a crowd of boys that were nasty and mean and wanted Arthur. Had taught him and raised him right. Turned his life in the right direction.
Then Saint Denis happened and Arthur wasn’t so favorable anymore.
Stumbling up the shore of Van Horn, Arthur had heard his worst fears come true—- “ You know I’ve never had a son ,” Dutch had said it so smoothly, so fluently that it couldn’t be anything but the truth. It’s what he believed and it was what Arthur believed now too. “ Your father raised a great man. ”
Arthur hates what Dutch has done to them.
Stuck to a tiny corner of Annesburg, burrowed into the darkness of the cave they now resided by, and broken as a whole, Dutch has doomed them. Arthur should hate him. Should curse him for what he’s done.
But Arthur can’t hate Dutch.
God , Arthur hated himself.
“Arthur?”
Arthur tensed, blinking as he turned from the small overlook of the river and trees, to look back at the approaching figure.
Charles looked tired. His fresh haircut was pulled back in its usual braid, but bits and pieces stuck up in various places. He had bags under his eyes and a frown on his lips, that large hoodie of his seemed to swallow him whole. He looked comfortable but uncomfortable at the same time. The same way that Arthur felt in this place, he supposed. He couldn’t blame him for feeling that way. But Arthur didn’t like the way he looked almost sympathetic and worried as he approached.
Arthur supposed he hates the way Charles cares so deeply for him too.
“Charles.” Arthur nodded in response, ignoring the rasp and tingle of his throat.
Charles came to a stop beside him, staring down at him with a carefully blank expression. “I just got back from the reservation. Abigail told me you’ve been over here for some time,” Arthur wondered what would’ve prompted her to approach Charles, fresh off his horse. He hadn’t done anything to raise alarm, he hadn’t made any passing comments or even spared anyone a glance. He’d come out here almost immediately since he came back. “She was worried.”
“Ain’t nothin’ to worry about.” Arthur immediately responded. He didn’t want any of them worried. Not when there were a million other things on their front steps, threatening to kill them without a blink of an eye. All it took was one wrong move— and they’ve made several. “Just wanted to relax out here.”
Charles stared at him silently for a long moment. Arthur wasn’t sure what he was looking for, what he was waiting to happen. Maybe he wanted him to burst into tears, to tell him all his deepest darkest concerns. Maybe he just wanted Arthur to tell him to leave him alone. But Arthur couldn’t find it within himself to say anything . No reassurances of teasing comments, no disregard— nothing . It was just them, the moon, and things left unsaid.
Finally, Charles spoke, “do you mind if I join you?” Arthur wanted to tell him to get some sleep, but Charles was already throwing his leg over the broken log with a soft sigh. “I would like some relaxation too.”
“Sure, why not.” Arthur drawled while Charles got himself comfortable.
Arthur cleared his dried throat once Charles settled, their thighs pressed together and Charles’ warmth rolling off of him in waves. In an instant, Arthur became vehemently aware that he was ice cold. His skin was riddled with goosebumps, the air bit him and almost threatened to suck the very life out of him. He felt almost angered by the way he’d grown so frail and weak. He wished this all would be over soon. That he could finally rest and just drift away in the warm embrace of the Devil’s arms.
But now, under the moonlight, he shivered as if a child stuck in the snow.
“You cold?” Charles was now staring at him, eyebrows raised and head tilted only an inch. He looked almost amused but mostly, usually, concerned.
“No.” Arthur answered, clenching his jaw with irritation. He willed himself to remain still, to not show any type of weakness. “I’m just fine. A little breeze, ‘s all.”
“I suppose,” Charles turned his gaze to the slow moving river below with a soft chuckling. An angelic ring amongst the crickets and rustle of leaves. “Not that bad though.”
Arthur looked at him flatly, silently willing him to not argue with him on this. “You’re wearing that huge jacket.”
Charles snorted, softly smiling and glancing down at his rather large jacket. “Hm.” Was all he said in response.
The silence embraced them again and, after some time, Charles pulled out his knife and started to fiddle with it on the log beneath them. He wasn’t doing anything important or really detailed, but just chipping away at it. He looked as if he was holding something inside of him. A hesitant and awkward knot that brought his shoulders upwards. His eyes bounced between the log and Arthur’s pale yet attentive gaze. And, for whatever reason, Arthur found it comforting. It was endearing in its own way.
It was almost a relief that Charles wasn’t going to pry. He wasn’t going to bother Arthur about the things he doesn’t want to say or about the things that should be said. Instead, he would allow them this peace . A calm that both of them could enjoy. Arthur supposed it's always been that way between them. Charles would wait for whenever Arthur was comfortable and then, inch by inch, Arthur would reveal those exposed nerves that made him tear up and fear the future.
It was similar to the night Arthur told Charles he was dying. Under the guise of the moon and the soft rush of the river, he’d uttered the reality of his life. He’d die as he lived, violently and without mercy. He had expected some type of reassurance that he brought this upon himself. But Charles only sighed that soft distant sigh, as if Arthur could’ve done better, and uttered, “ oh, Arthur .” And told Arthur this might be a gift in disguise. Knowing death was approaching and allowing him to tie his life up with some fucked up bow.
Arthur knew that alone made Charles an infinitely better man than he could ever be.
Slowly, Arthur’s mind began to drift back to all the problems. To the things he hated. The people that used to seem so open were now locking themselves into little shells that confined them from everyone else. He almost understood the pain and worry that Hosea felt for the year leading up to Blackwater, the months after the robbery. The arguments with Dutch. The old man wanted to see it all set straight before he went. And none of them listened. It weighed him down, made his head spin, and bile rose in his throat.
With a heave, he was coughing against his fist. His lungs rattled and chest tightened, suddenly he was nothing but a lump of flesh spreading spittle into the air. He leaned over and closed his eyes tight, silently willing himself to stop. Let him have his moment of peace before he was inevitably pushed back into the fray of their mess by either Micah or Dutch.
In the midst of his coughing attack, Arthur felt a hand pressed against the upper expanse of his back. A soothing rub that almost negotiated with his coughs to calm down. He swore that he heard Charles uttering, “ it’s okay. It’s okay, you’ll get through it .” But he believed that was just the lack of oxygen running to his brain making him delusional. Whether it was truly real or not, was not for Arthur to worry about. He would allow this delusion if it would make everything stop .
Once the coughing stopped, Arthur had to fight against the lack of oxygen flowing through his body. He placed one of his shaky hands on his knee and leaned heavily into it, wheezing and rasping as if he was a corpse waiting for his last rites. It was almost embarrassing how he could feel himself actively wasting away. Deteriorating like a flower kept in the dark. He hated his body.
“That happen a lot?” Charles asked, voice quiet and sincere. As if he knew this was one of the last things Arthur wanted to discuss.
Despite that, Arthur still answered through a wheeze. “Yeah, it-it ain’t nice—” He coughed softly into the nook of his arm. “Just don’t like doin’ it in camp, makes people…” He trailed off as he realized it was getting too personal. Too much of himself.
“Worried? I figured.” Charles rumbled with a sad look in his eyes, his hand was still on Arthur’s back. His contact lingered and Arthur almost wished he could feel his skin against his. “You know, we still worry no matter how well you try to hide things?”
“I know.”
“We’ll always worry.”
“Well, always won’t be much longer.”
Arthur could tell the moment that he said it, Charles hated it. His frown deepened and his touch paused, he stared at Arthur long and hard and seemingly decided against saying anything. His rubbing continued and Arthur hated himself too. That’s why it was okay when his heart ached. Because he hated himself too.
“Sorry.” Arthur weakly apologized, he sniffled and shivered once again.
Charles ignored his apology and, instead, asked him again, “You’re sure you’re not cold?”
“Maybe… a little…” Arthur shrugged.
Very suddenly, Charles pulled back from him. Arthur almost believed it was because he was irritated, but once Charles started to pull his large hoodie from over his head, Arthur realized what was happening. He shook his head and his eyes widened as Charles held the fabric out to him. It was heavy and thick, definitely meant for a cooler climate. But with the lack of fat on his body and energy running through him, it’d probably help infinitely better than the thin white shirt he wore now.
Charles raised his eyebrows, smiling softly. “Please, take it.” He said it so softly that Arthur felt like he could float away right there. As if Arthur was something to be protected and held with delicacy.
“Charles, I-I can’t…” Arthur trailed off with pursed lips, staring at the enticing clothing.
Charles rolled his eyes before opening the jacket and throwing it over Arthur’s head. “Arms.” He said like a mother dealing with a petulant child.
Arthur begrudgingly moved his arms into the holes and the jacket was pulled down, a hood over his head. Arthur was smaller than Charles now, a stick compared to the other. He felt like he was being embraced in a loving and infinite hug. He crossed his arms and stared at the nature in front of them. He knew that Charles was smiling now with amusement and satisfaction. And, despite his efforts, Arthur couldn’t help the small and embarrassed smile that spread across his face. A faint blush on his cheeks.
“It’s too big.”
“It’s warm isn’t it?” Arthur resisted telling him that’s only because Charles was wearing it moments ago. That it smelt like it him. A mixture of burnt wood and cedar. A comforting warmth of its own.
“Yes.” He said instead.
“Good. Just relax. I’ll get you some stew.” Charles stood, his thigh leaving his own and moved to retrieve some dinner for them both— but most importantly, Arthur.
Arthur almost felt emotional, looking down to his boots, he took in a shuddering breath. “Thank you, Charles.” His voice was barely an utter, he barely heard it himself.
Still, Charles heard him. “No need to thank me, Arthur. But, since you are, you’re welcome.” And then he was gone.
And appeared Arthur’s tears.
No matter how much he hated himself, Charles never took the hint to follow suit.
He supposed he hated that too.